The Grand Canyon of Arizona is over two hundred miles long, thirteen
wide, and a mile and a half deep; a titanic gorge in which mountains,
tablelands, chasms and cliffs lie half veiled in purple haze. It is
wild and sublime, a thing of wonder, of mystery; beyond all else a
place to grip the heart of a man, to unleash his daring spirit.

On April 20th, 1908, after days on the hot desert, my weary party and
pack train reached the summit of Powell's Plateau, the most isolated,
inaccessible and remarkable mesa of any size in all the canyon
country. Cut off from the mainland it appeared insurmountable;
standing aloof from the towers and escarpments, rugged and bold in
outline, its forest covering like a strip of black velvet, its giant
granite walls gold in the sun, it seemed apart from the world,
haunting with its beauty, isolation and wild promise.

The members of my party harmoniously fitted the scene. Buffalo Jones,
burly-shouldered, bronze-faced, and grim, proved in his appearance
what a lifetime on the plains could make of a man. Emett was a Mormon,
a massively built grey-bearded son of the desert; he had lived his
life on it; he had conquered it and in his falcon eyes shone all its
fire and freedom. Ranger Jim Owens had the wiry, supple body and
careless, tidy garb of the cowboy, and the watchful gaze, quiet face
and locked lips of the frontiersman. The fourth member was a Navajo
Indian, a copper-skinned, raven-haired, beady-eyed desert savage.

I had told Emett to hire some one who could put the horses on grass in
the evening and then find them the next morning. In northern Arizona
this required more than genius. Emett secured the best trailer of the
desert Navajos. Jones hated an Indian; and Jim, who carried an ounce
of lead somewhere in his person, associated this painful addition to
his weight with an unfriendly Apache, and swore all Indians should
be dead. So between the two, Emett and I had trouble in keeping our
Navajo from illustrating the plainsman idea of a really good Indian--a
dead one.

While we were pitching camp among magnificent pine trees, and above a
hollow where a heavy bank of snow still lay, a sodden pounding in the
turf attracted our attention.

As we all made a dive among our snorting and plunging horses the sound
seemed to be coming right into camp. In a moment I saw a string of
wild horses thundering by. A noble black stallion led them, and as he
ran with beautiful stride he curved his fine head backward to look at
us, and whistled his wild challenge.

Later a herd of large white-tailed deer trooped up the hollow. The
Navajo grew much excited and wanted me to shoot, and when Emett told
him we had not come out to kill, he looked dumbfounded. Even the
Indian felt it a strange departure from the usual mode of hunting to
travel and climb hundreds of miles over hot desert and rock-ribbed
canyons, to camp at last in a spot so wild that deer were tame as
cattle, and then not kill.

Nothing could have pleased me better, incident to the settling into
permanent camp. The wild horses and tame deer added the all-satisfying
touch to the background of forest, flowers and mighty pines and sunlit
patches of grass, the white tents and red blankets, the sleeping
hounds and blazing fire-logs all making a picture like that of a
hunter's dream.

"Come, saddle up," called the never restful Jones. "Leave the Indian
in camp with the hounds, and we'll get the lay of the land." All
afternoon we spent riding the plateau. What a wonderful place! We were
completely bewildered with its physical properties, and surprised
at the abundance of wild horses and mustangs, deer, coyotes, foxes,
grouse and other birds, and overjoyed to find innumerable lion trails.
When we returned to camp I drew a rough map, which Jones laid flat on
the ground as he called us around him.

In shape the plateau resembled the ace of clubs. The center and side
wings were high and well wooded with heavy pines; the middle wing
was longest, sloped west, had no pine, but a dense growth of cedar.
Numerous ridges and canyons cut up this central wing. Middle Canyon,
the longest and deepest, bisected the plateau, headed near camp, and
ran parallel with two smaller ones, which we named Right and Left
Canyons. These three were lion runways and hundreds of deer carcasses
lined the thickets. North Hollow was the only depression, as well as
runway, on the northwest rim. West Point formed the extreme western
cape of the plateau. To the left of West Point was a deep cut-in of
the rim wall, called the Bay. The three important canyons opened into
it. From the Bay, the south rim was regular and impassable all the way
round to the narrow Saddle, which connected it to the mainland.

"Now then," said Jones, when we assured him that we were pretty well
informed as to the important features, "you can readily see our
advantage. The plateau is about nine or ten miles long, and six wide
at its widest. We can't get lost, at least for long. We know where
lions can go over the rim and we'll head them off, make short cut
chases, something new in lion hunting. We are positive the lions can
not get over the second wall, except where we came up, at the Saddle.
In regard to lion signs, I'm doubtful of the evidence of my own eyes.
This is virgin ground. No white man or Indian has ever hunted lions
here. We have stumbled on a lion home, the breeding place of hundreds
of lions that infest the north rim of the canyon."

The old plainsman struck a big fist into the palm of his hand, a rare
action with him. Jim lifted his broad hat and ran his fingers through
his white hair. In Emett's clear desert-eagle eyes shown a furtive,
anxious look, which yet could not overshadow the smouldering fire.

More than anything else that remark from such a man thrilled me with
its subtle suggestion. He loved those beautiful horses. What wild
rides he saw in his mind's eye! In cold calculation we perceived the
wonderful possibilities never before experienced by hunters, and as
the wild spell clutched us my last bar of restraint let down.

During supper we talked incessantly, and afterward around the
camp-fire. Twilight fell with the dark shadows sweeping under the
silent pines; the night wind rose and began its moan.

"Shore there's some scent on the wind," said Jim, lighting his pipe
with a red ember. "See how uneasy Don is."

The hound raised his fine, dark head and repeatedly sniffed the air,
then walked to and fro as if on guard for his pack. Moze ground his
teeth on a bone and growled at one of the pups. Sounder was sleepy,
but he watched Don with suspicious eyes. The other hounds, mature and
somber, lay stretched before the fire.